


maul the world

by thewestwinged



Category: Dimension 20 (Web Series), Fantasy High
Genre: Angst, Gen, but also. making choices to better yourself., canon compliant as of ep 9 sort of ?, minor tw in the author's note, on GOD we are going to get you a support system aelwen abernant, the beginnings of a redemption arc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:49:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21823942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewestwinged/pseuds/thewestwinged
Summary: The ball spins spins spins, and what once was Aelwen Abernant crawls on scraped knees and shattered hands because there is nothing else she can do.(aelwen, in the aftermath)
Relationships: Aelwen Abernant & Adaine Abernant, Aelwen Abernant & Ragh Barkrock
Comments: 22
Kudos: 141





	maul the world

**Author's Note:**

> tw for psychological torture, specifically aelwen's as described in the latest episode. not in any explicit detail, and if you were okay during the episode you will probably be ok here too, but i wanted to mention it.  
> title from fall out boy's the kids aren't alright because im PREDICTABLE
> 
> aelwen abernant deserves a second chance!!!

The ball is spinning spinning spinning.

It shimmers, blue and ephemeral. In the beginning, she tried to fight it, and then after she broke all the bones in her fingers she tried to ignore it. But the ball spins spins spins, plastic texture scraping raw against the bare skin of her arms, deposits her with an unceremonious thump once the centripetal force fails to compensate for gravity: force equals 9.8 times rapidly depleting mass, equals the slow turning squared divided by the too-small radius, shrinking, squeezing in on her, always— 

The ball spins spins spins, and what once was Aelwen Abernant crawls on scraped knees and shattered hands because there is nothing else she can do.

Being back in Elmville is its own kind of torture. 

With the Crown of the Nightmare King safely returned to Arthur Aguefort’s questionably capable care, the enemy slain and the heroes triumphant, Adaine and her friends (she won’t call them the  _ Bad Kids _ , that’s just fucking stupid) have settled back into whatever life had been for them a week previous. Aelwen tries not to watch them from her new room in Mordrid Manor (seeing as her own home is less than ash in the wind), and when she fails, she tries not to let their casual camaraderie sting. 

Aelwen Abernant does not pretend to herself. Despite being a good student and a good wizard and a good actress, she is not a good  _ person _ . As it turns out, her new life is something of a fitting punishment. Every morning, she wakes up in a room that isn’t hers and looks in the mirror at a face that isn’t hers, either— gaunt eyes, pale, stretched skin, too-thin arms. 

Everywhere Aelwen looks, she sees shapes in the shadows. The sharp angles of her father linger in every crack and crevice. It’s exhausting, being on guard whenever she leaves her room in case he’s here, somehow, in case he’s come back for her. So she doesn’t.

Adaine and her friends head back to school, and Aelwen stays in her room, ignoring Jawbone’s numerous, pitiful attempts at connection. She sits in her bed and stares at the ceiling and counts back from one thousand in intervals of seven until the blurry edges of her vision coalesce into a single, dark galaxy. 

When she does manage to wrangle herself into a trance, she dreams. 

In the dream, Aelwen is sitting stiff and still, ribs sucked in. Her mother braids her hair. On the floor in front of her is Adaine, whose hair is too short to be braided, too wavy and tangled for Elianwyn to bother with it. Adaine’s eyes are a bright, bright blue.

There is a pattern in it.

Elianwyn places the final bobby pin in the braid, pats the back of Aelwen’s head, and stands. In the dream, Aelwen knows this is the last time she will see her. She reaches for her arm, but her grasping fingers pass right through, as though one or both of them was never real.

She spins around, but Adaine has disappeared, and in her place is Anguin, with the same bright blue eyes. And then before she can scream she is back in the ball, scrambling to catch a glimpse of him passing through the adjacent corridor, yelling, pleading for him to listen.

When she slams against the blue glass with her fists, they tangle in her hair, pulled taut against her sides. She wriggles but cannot free herself, and the ball spins, and spins, and spins.

She wakes up gasping.

The Friday after school starts back up, Adaine knocks on her bedroom door before sticking her head in. “We’re going to Basrar’s, do you want anything? Or maybe we can hang out when I get back?”

No elaboration needed. The ‘we’ is either the party, or the party plus Tracker, and maybe Ragh is going along—probably, since he lives here, now—the point is that Adaine has a ‘we’ and Aelwen is not apart of it and she wouldn’t want to be, anyways, it’s fine. “No, thank you,” Aelwen drawls. “More important things occupy my time.”

_ Unaffected, unaffected, unaffected _ . She chants the mantra at the backs of her eyes.

“You know, you don’t have to keep putting this act on,” Adaine says. Her eyes are narrowed, calculating. The idea that she can see right through Aelwen’s carefully crafted exterior sends a wave of panic up her throat.

“It’s not an act,” Aelwen bites back. “What, is it so hard to believe that not everyone wants to spend time with you?”

“And it’s not even like I can be mad at you anymore,” Adaine continues, voice wavering slightly. “I mean.” She falters, but Aelwen knows the rest of that sentence.  _ Look at you, now. Prim and perfect Aelwen Abernant, reduced to a half-feral animal, broken. Barely worth anyone’s time, much less their anger. _

And now the panic turns to fury. A scorching, howling fire. “I do  _ not _ need your pity,” Aelwen hisses. “You are not better than me, you  _ pathetic _ excuse for a wizard, you wouldn’t have survived a single fucking  _ day _ of what I went through.”

Adaine’s face shutters, a mask of grief and hurt. She starts to speak and seems to regret it, tears spilling haltingly from her eyes. Just as the vicious, bubbling rage in Aelwen’s chest begins to settle and the guilt sets in and maybe she’s beginning to word a retraction in her head—not an apology, no—Adaine spins and rushes away. 

Which is fine. Aelwen doesn’t pretend to herself. She wants this, because she has it, and Aelwen Abernant always gets what she wants, therefore anything she has must be wanted. 

A simple statement of equivalence. 

Muscle by aching, tense muscle, she sinks into the bed, beginning her count backwards from a thousand in intervals of seven. She’s just reached three hundred seventy seven when the door to her room creaks open. 

“Have you come to tell me off?” Aelwen asks, staring dully at the ceiling. 

Ragh Barkrock doesn’t say anything. He just stands there, leaning against the doorframe, staring at her. Not in a creepy way, per se. Almost curious. 

She rolls for Insight into what the fuck he’s doing here, and gets a natural three. Fucking  _ fantastic _ . Improv it is. 

“Because I could care less about your opinion, honestly,” she continues, reaching for the words that will cut the deepest, that will make him stop whatever weird kind of intervention this is and just  _ leave _ . “You’re not even a real member of the party, I’m truly shocked they’ve let you hang on for as long as you have, and—and—” She wracks her mind for something else to say, but for some fucking reason, it seems all her eloquence has left her. Blinking, she slumps back against the headboard. 

“Are you done?” Ragh asks, moving to stand by her. His voice is firm, loud, but not angry. Like he’s talking to a genuine sentient being, not a baby that needs to be coddled and sung to sleep. 

The newness of it shocks Aelwen into silence. 

Ragh sighs, sitting down on the edge of her bed. “Look. You have a second chance at being a good guy, okay?” he says. “And you can do the easy thing and keep fuckin’ pushing all your feelings down and pretending you’re above caring or relying on people, and eventually Adaine and Jawbone and everyone will stop trying to reach you and you’ll be alone.” 

Aelwen opens her mouth to spit something cutting, something about how she _ wants nothing more _ , but he barrels on. “And I don’t like to preach, Aelwen, but it’s a fuckin’ miserable place to be. You think you’ll be fine but you won’t be. Your brain can’t handle being angry all the time and so you just get  _ sad _ —you walk around like a husk, trying to find shit to punch so you can at least feel the anger again.”

His hands are shaking, Aelwen notes. It’s the only thing her shitty Insight role will let her focus on. His hands are shaking and his words are stated firm, like fact. 

“The anger is  _ easy _ ,” Ragh says. “The anger is easy and it’ll get you fuckin’ killed if you don’t kill yourself first.”

There’s this stupid lump rising in her throat, almost enough to make her demand he stop. Almost.

“So you can push everyone away,” Ragh continues. “Or you can pick yourself the fuck up and accept that people are willing to help you. That people  _ want _ to help you, and that you don’t have to be alone. It’s a hard fuckin’ thing to do, it’s scary as hell, but.” He pauses, squints at her, and all of a sudden, his gaze turns sort of…  _ soft _ . The tense line in his forehead fades, and he looks at her the same way he looks at Fabian and Gorgug, the same way he looks at his  _ friends _ , and she can’t handle it, there’s a tidal wave of sickness rising in her stomach, it’s going to explode from her throat—

“It’s worth it, I promise,” Ragh says. He gives her a little smile, tusks poking around his lips. “It’s really worth it.”

He pats her on the shoulder, a searing hot brand against her skin, achy and sensitive and fever-hot. And then he stands and leaves. 

Aelwen takes a shaky, hesitant breath through her nose. And then it’s like the ball is  _ inside _ her, spinning, spinning, organs twisting horribly, and the ball expands, pushing everything against the side of her ribs. 

But Aelwen Abernant does not pretend to herself, at least not on purpose. Her skin prickles in the heat. She tucks her head against her knees and feels it burn, lets it scorch up the sides of her chest. She breathes deep and allows the pain to wash through her, and doesn’t cry. 

The ball is spinning spinning spinning spinning spinning—

A hand presses against the glass. 

Standing in the doorway to Adaine’s room is akin to being flayed open, but Aelwen isn’t a fucking coward, and so she takes the sharp weight of Adaine’s curious stare into her stomach and holds it there. “Can we watch something? I brought ice cream,” she says. 

It’s not a  _ grand _ gesture, because the ice cream is from the kitchen ten feet away, but it’s a gesture nonetheless. “Sure,” Adaine says, voice measured. 

“Thanks,” Aelwen says, and the whole thing is so transactional that it makes her sick all over again, but she still puts one foot in front of the other until she’s reached the edge of Adaine’s bed.  _ It’s worth it _ , Ragh’s voice reminds her.  _ It’s worth it it’s worth it it’s worth it _ . “What are you, um. What are you doing over there?”

It’s stupid, so fucking stupid, but Adaine still turns her laptop so Aelwen can see. The screen displays the character creation for some game Aelwen doesn’t recognize, with a female protagonist that looks  _ decidedly _ fucked up. “It’s this series called Monster Factory—it’s sort of silly, but I think it’s funny, and it relaxes me, so.” She shrugs. 

“Sounds fun,” Aelwen says, sitting delicately on the edge of the bed, only shifting when Adaine squishes herself towards the wall and gestures for Aelwen to fully get on. They dole out the ice cream and Adaine starts the video over from the beginning, settling back into the pillows. 

Aelwen doesn’t expect to find the video that entertaining—not that she doesn’t trust Adaine’s taste (she sort of doesn’t), but mostly because she expects to be too nervous to enjoy much of anything. But the brothers who make the video are surprisingly funny, and she finds herself giggling along with Adaine as they crack their jokes. When the video finishes, Adaine turns to look at her, nervous, flushed pink with laughter. Aelwen realizes with a weird sort of stomach jerk that she’s never seen Adaine this way. Carefree, and happy. 

“There are two more, if you want to stay to watch those,” Adaine offers, carefully, as if stretching a hand out to a feral cat. “No pressure.”

“Yes, I—I would like that,” Aelwen stumbles. She stares resolutely down into her lap, and thankfully Adaine doesn’t press the issue, instead turning to play the next video. 

And so the afternoon is spent that way, laughing along with the chaos on Adaine’s laptop, muscles slinking down one by one until Aelwen is, for the first time in a very long time,  _ actually _ relaxed. She lets her head tilt back against the headboard, noting with an abstract sort of wonder that the perpetual tension in her jaw, while not completely gone, has diminished significantly. 

It’s almost abrupt, when the series ends. Adaine pauses the next video before it begins, turning towards and away from Aelwen with aborted movements, fiddling with a loose string on her shirt. 

So Aelwen takes that as her queue to leave. She grabs the bowls and spoons where they lie discarded at the end of the bed, stands, smooths out her skirt. She moves to exit with an acknowledging nod of her head. 

“Aelwen, wait,” Adaine says. 

When Aelwen turns, Adaine’s eyes are wide, shiny, ears plastered to the sides of her head. 

Adaine’s always been expressive. Their parents had always spoke contemptuously about it, how  _ improper _ it was. Now, Aelwen finds that she is inordinately grateful for the obvious tells. 

“You’re forgiven,” Adaine says. Her smile is pained, happy, relieved. Horribly earnest. 

Aelwen blinks three times in quick succession, realizing with a bout of mortification that there are tears welling in her eyes. “See you tomorrow,” she blurts. She spins on her heel and flees. 

It’s three in the morning and she can’t trance, so Aelwen stands and flicks on the lights.

In the mirror is a girl who she has grown to recognize. Bright eyes and healthily flushed skin, a body that is still too thin but slowly filling out. Long hair that drapes over her shoulders.

Barely conscious of what she’s doing, Aelwen reaches for the dagger on her bedside table. She grasps her hair in one hand, feels the coarse threads, the heavy weight of them. With the other, she slashes.

Golden locks fall to the floor, collecting in a soft pile at her feet. The moonlight through the window illuminates them, illuminates this girl in the mirror, with a strong jaw and a strong gaze. This girl who could, with time, become Aelwen Abernant.

She lies back down and stares up at the ceiling of what is now her room, in what is now her home, or the closest thing she’ll ever get to one. Aelwen doesn’t pretend to herself—it’s more than she deserves, but it’s what she’s got. She can work with that.

(In the morning, she will go downstairs for breakfast, and be hesitantly welcomed at the table. Fig will earnestly compliment her hair, and Adaine will agree, until Fig begins to rant about the different colors they could dye it. Jawbone will give her half of a smile, and maybe later on in the day she’ll go and talk to him, listen to his incredible stories interspersed with genuinely helpful advice. Maybe she’ll share something of her own.)

For now, Aelwen closes her eyes, and has no dreams.

**Author's Note:**

> this is entirely unedited because im impulsive so please let me know if ive done stupid grammar things
> 
> find me on tumblr @aberfaeth to talk about these GOOD KIDS


End file.
